


Let the River Flow

by sunchildrenandmoonfrogs



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Gen, M/M, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Simon Snow Is Bad At Magic, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Bad at Feelings, Watford (Simon Snow), Watford First Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:08:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26142349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunchildrenandmoonfrogs/pseuds/sunchildrenandmoonfrogs
Summary: Baz thought the chosen one would know how to do magic. Or at the very least, hold his wand right.Or - Baz is pissed that Simon can’t hold his wand right, and teaches him how to do so. Feelings bloom.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Kudos: 51





	Let the River Flow

“It’s the tenth day of classes and you still don’t know how to hold your wand right.” I mean it to come out as snarky, and it does. His shoulders tense across the room and I smirk.

He’s folding clothes (messily, I might add) and trying not to look at me. Failing. Every few minutes, he peeks over his shoulder, eyes darting to me. Like if he doesn’t know my exact coordinates every second, I’ll pounce. Devour him.

“That’s rude.” He says after a tense second. I almost laugh, he sounds so childish.

“I didn’t mean it any other way,” I bite back.  
His fists clench around a ratty old tee shirt. One of his knuckles, which is broken or dislocated by the looks of it, pops out from the rest of his fingers. 

Snow’s confusing in that way; he’s always cowering away from me, but he’s got the bruises and scars like he was a fighter at whatever chavvy normal school he came from.

“If I were holding it wrong, Miss Possibelf would’ve told me.” He retorts.

“I’m sorry, do you actually think the teachers here care about us?”

Finally, he turns to me, an ugly frown pulling down his lips. I nearly burst out laughing, he looks like a five-year-old whose cookie has been stolen.  
I can predict the word before they even roll off his tongue. He’s going to defend the mage and all the crackpot teachers here; he’s going to march off and cry and stuff his mouth with scones. I’ve only known him for two weeks, but snow really is that predictable.

“If you know so much, then teach me.” He says instead.

“What?”

“Teach me.”

Scoffing, I pick up a book on my bedside table, flip it open. “As if I would ever lower myself to your level.”

He stares at me, and I pointedly don’t stare back. Eventually, he goes back to folding laundry and I try to read. I really do. But I can’t. I cross my legs and uncross them. I bite my lip. Chew on the inside of my cheek. Ugh. Fiona once told me, Pitches never back down from a challenge. She said, It’s in our blood.

I never thought I’d say this, but curse my royal blood.

I jump out of bed, walk over to him. Every step is hell.

“Wand,” I put out my hand, flex my fingers. He turns, surprised to see me this close.

“What?”

“You wanted me to teach you, I’ll teach you.” I put as much spite as I can into my voice. To make it clear this is not out of kindness.

“Oh,” He says. Walks over to his bed table and opens the drawer. Inside is his wand, which he picks up with delicate and anxious movements, like a single touch could break it. Which is true, but Snow is not one to be delicate.

“Here.” He puts it in my hand, but not before looking at me, squinting as though that would reveal my motivations.

For a split second, I almost snap it. I could. But I don’t. Something about his mole and birth-marked fingers inches away from mine stops me.

“So.” I clear my throat. Clear my mind. “First is the way you hold it. The way you do is too loose, it doesn’t allow for a good transfer of magic.”

He nods and I show him, wrapping my fingers around the wood. The wand is fairly new, not an heirloom like most magic items are, and I narrowly avoid splinters.

“Grip it more with your palm then your fingertips. And never, ever dig your nails into the wood. It damages it, and it makes you look idiotic.”

I hand the wand back to him and he tries to replicate. Better than before, but its still obvious that he doesn’t have Magicians for parents.

“No, you have to- Just-“ I finally land on just moving his fingers myself. They’re cold and frail. Like he’s close to death. I try not to think about that. “The pointer finger extends more, see?”

He adjusts his grip. “Is that good?”

“Getting better,” I say, then look up. He’s staring at me. Smiling in a way that makes my breath catch in my throat. My face flushes red and I look back at his hands. 

His eyes are pools, deep lakes. Murky water. There’s a mole squarely between the two of them. The fact makes the skin on my wrists itch. I realize my fingers are still clutching his even though his grip is near perfect. I don’t know what to do about that.

“Can you feel the difference?” I ask.

He nods. “A little. It feels more… open? Like a faucet was- was off and now a little water is trickling through.”

“Eloquent,” I laugh, but I get what he’s saying.

He rolls his eyes. “Now how do I… actually cast a spell?”

“Like which words to speak?”

“No, no. I mean, how do you get the magic to come out.”

I look at him. He’s sincere. The chosen one, the chosen one, doesn’t know how to make his magic flow. My family would have a field day with this. I would too, except. Except… I’m not sure. It seems more sad than laughable.

I’m doing this. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Forgive me, mother.

“Its hard to explain, but I’ll try,” He nods, and I wrap both hands around his on the wand. “Feel deep inside you and look for that pull.”

“What?”

“For me, my magic feels like fire. Deep in my chest, there’s a match and all I need to do is strike it. Then I slowly let that fire travel down my arm, to my fingertips, and to my wand. Up my throat to my lips. I focus on the fire and move it to words, to a flick of the wrist.” I pause, look him in the eyes. “You said it felt like a faucet, so focus on turning the handle. Feel the cool water flow through you.”  
He nods.

“Do you want to try?”

“Will you laugh if I mess up?”

“Do you want an honest answer to that?”

“Rude.”

“Just a little.” I admit.

“Promise?” He asks, holding out his pinky finger. Childish. Maybe endearing if I look at it through rose colored lenses.

“Promise.” I link mine with his.

“Okay. Step back a bit.” I do, and he grips his wand, firm. Looks at me with an eyebrow quirked, as if asking me to correct him. I don’t. “Bugger off!” He shouts.

In the split second before the spell hits me, his eyes catch mine and he smiles. I can almost see the power moving through him, like a river overflowing. He glows yellow for a split second, nearly gold, and it must be a chosen one thing because I’ve never seen it before.

And then I’m shot back through the air. My back hits my bedpost with a bang.

“Ow.” I groan in pain, rubbing my back.

“Holy crap…” Snow stares down at his hands, at his wand. “I… did that?”

“Yes, you did, Snow. Care to help me out?” My voice cracks with pain.

“Oh, oh yeah. Sorry Ba- Pitch. Pitch.” He runs over and gives me his hand, pulls me up. “Sorry about that.”

“Yeah, you should be.” I growl. “You almost killed me!”

“You’re just dramatic.” He pulls me up and dusts off my trousers. Then smiles, small and shaky. “Thank you for today. It was… really nice of you.”

“Don’t think this means we’re best friends now, Snow.” I say, turning back to my bed. “I just want our duels to be fairer.”

“Because you don’t want me to get hurt?” He teases. I can’t see him, but I can tell he’s smiling.

“Because it’ll be more fun to beat you.” I say back.  
And maybe both statements are true. But that doesn’t mean Snow has to know.


End file.
